


Prelude to Grief

by Eressë (eresse21)



Series: Greenleaf and Imladris [12]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, F/M, Gen, M/M, description of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eresse21/pseuds/Eress%C3%AB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The twins face heart-rending changes in the wake of a horrific transgression that takes place in the depths of the Misty Mountains. Twelfth story in a series chronicling the millennia-spanning relationship of Legolas and Elrohir from the moment they meet beneath the eaves of Greenwood the Great to the years of the War of the Ring and beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Atrocity

**Author's Note:**

> _The characters belong to the wizard of storytelling himself, JRR Tolkien and/or his estate. No offence is intended or profit made in my use of them._
> 
> **Be warned:** There are graphic descriptions of torture (past, not ongoing) in the first chapter which may be a trigger for some. I'm hesitant to label certain acts of violence non-con since, strictly speaking, there is no sexual intent or contact in them. But again, for some, there might be enough elements to constitute non-con, so proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such scenes or avoid reading them altogether.

Imladris, _lairë_ T.A. 2509  
Legolas looked upon Rivendell with a deep sense of foreboding. Gloom seemed to suffuse the entire vale as he had never felt it do before. Even the trees seemed to conspire with whatever calamity had struck the elven refuge, their foliage unaccountably sparse, the aromatic scent of pine mysteriously muted. 

He glanced at his father, Thranduil, and brother, Brethildor. They, too, felt the difference. Their expressions were half grim, half alarmed. The evil that had befallen the Lady of Imladris had reached beyond her ruined body to strip her valley home of its lilting charm and welcoming warmth.

It was barely a month since they had received the appalling news of Celebrían’s abduction by a band of Goblins and her subsequent torture in their dens. Just over two months since the unspeakable incident in the Misty Mountains. Elrond’s wife had been on her way to Lothlórien for a visit to her parents. It was one of the rare sojourns wherein neither Elrond nor any of her children were able to accompany her. And Glorfindel had been away on lengthy patrol, investigating reports of brigandage northeast of Rivendell. Only Erestor and a small company of warriors had been with her. 

No one had thought anything untoward could happen. There had been no recent reports of orcs near the Redhorn Pass and once past the mountains, a company of Lórien Elves was expected to meet her and protect her the rest of the way to the Golden Wood. The ambush had been totally unexpected and the numbers of their foes chillingly large.

The ocs had scattered her escort through sheer brute force, wounding or killing several warriors. Before the Elven soldiers could regroup, the goblins had borne Celebrían away. Erestor was among the grievously injured but despite a broken leg, a dislocated shoulder and multiple gashes, the steward had had the presence of mind to order his men to track the orcs as far as they were able while he saw to the care of the other wounded. Upon fulfillment of his orders, the remnants of Celebrían’s escort hastened back to Rivendell and informed Elrond of her abduction.

Within hours of learning of his wife’s fate, Elrond had led a rescue party into Hithaeglir. There they split into small search parties, their intent to find and retrieve Rivendell’s lady and not to wage war on her captors. That would come later.

Elrond had led one group, Glorfindel’s second-in-command, Daurin, another and the brethren, Elladan and Elrohir, the third. It was the twins who discovered their mother’s whereabouts; they who rescued her from the noisome hold of her tormentors. 

Elrond had sent word to Thranduil as soon as he’d dealt with his lady’s erstwhile abductors. It was as much a warning to the woodland king about the increased boldness of the Hithaeglir orcs as the exchange of news between their realms. 

Thranduil had not wasted any time arranging to go to Rivendell at once. Naturally, Legolas had insisted on coming along. Brethildor, on the other hand, led the well-armed troop that escorted them to the elven refuge. It was fortunate they had been warned by Elrond. They easily beat off a band of marauding goblins as they descended the Misty Mountains from the High Pass. At the feet of the great range, they were met by Glorfindel and a band of soldiers. Guarded by so formidable a company, the rest of their journey was made without incident. 

Remembering his own mother’s tragedy, Legolas wondered worriedly how his friends were coping with Celebrían’s misfortune. The pall that blanketed Imladris was disturbing to say the least.

They were greeted by Elrond and Elladan at the doors of the Last Homely House. Arwen was attending to her mother at the moment. Elrohir was nowhere in sight. Legolas stifled his impulse to inquire about the younger twin and followed the others as Elrond led the way to his bedchamber. They learned that they had missed Celebrían’s parents, Celeborn and Galadriel, by just a day. The Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood had arrived in Imladris a scant three weeks after word of their daughter’s rescue reached them, riding long and hard and fast with scarcely a pause for rest on the way. They’d stayed for a sennight before returning to Lórien. Times were such that even grieving parents could not turn their backs on their duties and responsibilities overlong.

The bedchamber was awash with light, every window left wide open to let in fresh air and sunshine. Elladan softly explained that it was necessary since dark stillness only recalled to his mother the deeps of the orkish den where she had been kept captive for nigh a week. The nights were the worst for even the light from several lamps and candles was oft not sufficient to keep her fears at bay. 

Arwen and her former nurse, Almáriel, had just finished sponging Celebrían and had tenderly dressed her in fresh bedclothes. The Lady of Imladris lay cocooned in warm covers upon the wide bed she shared with Elrond. She was asleep, lulled into dreamless slumber by the strong draught her husband had prepared for her. 

The Mirkwood Elves gazed at her in mingled horror and pity. Her glorious silver tresses were no more. Entire plains of bare, scarred scalp showed through the thinned locks. One side of her face was rough with abrasions and her lower lip was covered with scabs where she had bitten down hard in her extreme pain. Her gown and blanket hid a multitude of atrocities rendered upon her slender body. Her lamentably slow healing was as much evidence of the trauma she had experienced as it was of her body’s failing strength. 

“Sweet Eru! What in Arda did those scum do to her?” Legolas heard his brother mutter in shock.

Afterwards, Elrond led his guests to his study where Glorfindel and Erestor soon joined them, Erestor noticeably limping. With help from his son and chief steward, Elrond recounted to them all that his dear wife had endured. 

The orcs had easily recognized her, of course. No one could mistake the silver beauty of Rivendell’s mistress for any other. And so they had made her pay for being Elrond’s wife. They had wreaked all their rage and malice against the Imladrin lord upon his hapless lady. And when each stage of torture rendered her unconscious, they cruelly brought her back to awareness with a chilly dousing of foul water from the nether regions of their underground realm.

It had started with whips. For two whole days they had scourged her intermittently. When she would faint, her body a mass of welts and bruises, they stopped only to forcibly revive her for another round. On the third or fourth day of her captivity, her nails had been pulled out one by one from her fingers and toes, the exposed and excruciatingly tender nail beds then trod upon or tweaked or bitten until she was hoarse from screaming. 

For added sport, they had hauled her wounded form from chamber to chamber, dragging her by her hair, yanking whole handfuls out in the process, leaving her with a bloody patchwork of a scalp. At last, when they’d finally tired of their game, they’d inflicted the worst torment of all.

They’d brought forth one of their rough-hewn clubs and, in a ghastly parody of the sexual act, had impaled her repeatedly with the filthy instrument until she bled profusely. Not content with the damage they’d done to her now torn body, they’d forced her awake then flipped her roughly onto her stomach. And rammed the club up her backside until her thighs ran crimson with her blood.

It was this horrific scene the twins had come upon, guided to the torture chamber by their mother’s agonized shrieks. It was a testament to the brethren‘s self-control that they had not fallen upon her torturers in foolhardy rage. Instead, they had lured the majority of the orcs to another cave where their waiting warriors had sealed in the creatures with a rockslide. 

Knowing the trapped orcs would eventually dig their way out, they swiftly returned to the main chamber and slaughtered the guards. In the melee, one orc sought to render their rescue attempt vain by slaying the captive Elf-lady. Elrohir had opened its entrails with one savage stroke and the most it had done was wound Celebrían.

The twins had perforce borne their mother halfway down the mountain before they were able to stop and inspect her injuries. It was only then that they discovered that the wound dealt her bore poison. But ever aware of the possibility of pursuit, they were forced to continue their flight. By the time they met up with the other search parties at the feet of Hithaeglir, her injuries had festered, infection made possible by her severe weakening. And the poison had seeped into the flesh and muscles around her right shoulder causing great pain to her neck and right upper arm and breast.

Elrond had managed to calm down enough to bring his wife home and treat her, drawing as much of the poison from her body as he could and tenderly administering to her many wounds. The worst had been the damage inflicted upon her lower body. He’d been forced to cut her open to cleanse her innards; her delicate flesh had been riddled with splinters and infiltrated with the filth of the unclean club. He’d barely managed to hold in his fury until he’d finished sewing up the incisions. 

Then he’d let it out in full. With Rivendell’s fiercest warriors at his command, he and the twins had returned to the orcs’ hold. They’d lured the creatures from their den then driven them into a large deep pit they’d filled with kindling and dry wood. Elrond himself had thrown in the burning faggot that set the wood afire. All around the rim of the delved inferno, the Imladrin Elves had prevented the orcs from clambering out by forcing them back at spear or sword point.

“I never thought I would so delight in the screams of creatures being roasted alive or enjoy the stench of burning flesh,” Elrond said, steel limning his deceptively soft voice. “But Elbereth help me, I did.”

Thranduil shook his head. “None can blame you, Elrond,” he pointed out. “What they did to Celebrían...” He scowled in remembered rage. “Had those brigands done the same to my Ithilwen, I would have been as ruthless with them. Mayhap even more.” He looked at Glorfindel and Erestor. “I think we’d best discuss how to protect our people from these creatures. They are grown over-bold to have dared abduct the Lady of Imladris.”

Erestor said, “It was a well-planned ambush. They knew our route and that our numbers were not great. And they struck when we least expected it.”

“Then they are no longer as witless as we thought,” Brethildor remarked with a concerned frown.

“They are no longer leaderless,” Glorfindel pointed out. “We suspect that the Necromancer may have had a hand in this.”

“Accursed sorcerer,” Thranduil scowled. “What has the White Council decided about Dol Guldur?”

Elrond replied, “We have reason to believe the Dark Lord may be taking shape once more. But we have no proof. And, admittedly, our attention has been drawn to the south and the calamities there. Since Osgiliath’s fall, there has been no surcease of troubles upon Gondor. Of late, the Steward Cirion has been barely holding the line at Anduin against the Balchoth.” He looked at Brethildor. “Have you encountered these men?”

The darkling prince said: “Only infrequently. They seem more interested in the southern kingdom than in our realm.”

“That is not surprising if Dol Guldur is behind their aggression,” Glorfindel said. “Gondor is the only remaining bastion of the Dúnedain. If the Necromancer is indeed Sauron returned, he would desire the destruction of the last of the Númenoreans in Middle-earth. He will not have forgotten Elendil’s part in his defeat in the last age.” 

At this point, Elrond and Thranduil began to discuss in detail the mutual defense of their respective realms. Ordinarily interested in such matters, Legolas now found himself restless instead. The continued absence of a certain Elf greatly bothered him.

He glanced at Elladan and caught his eye. “Where is Elrohir?” he quietly asked.

The older twin sighed. “In the drill yard spending himself in archery. At other times ’tis swordplay or wrestling. ‘Tis his way of venting his anger over what happened to _Nana_.”

Legolas eyed his friend compassionately. “And you?”

Elladan shook his head. “Elrohir has always felt more deeply about everything than anyone else. I’d often thought it a failing that I do not feel as profoundly as he does but now I am grateful. I, too, am enraged by what they did to her but it does not consume me as it does him.” He smiled wanly at Legolas. “Go to him, _meldiren_. He would welcome your comfort.”

Legolas rose at once and left the study. 

He found Elrohir as Elladan had said. It was apparent he’d been at it for hours though he continued to hit his marks with admirable precision. The evidence of excessive exertion showed itself in the weary cant of his shoulders, the uncharacteristic lassitude of his movements, the tendrils of black silk that clung to his sweat-sheened cheeks and neck. Only his expression betrayed the fires of rage within that refused to be quenched even by incessant activity. 

The younger twin let loose arrow after arrow, his entire mind so focused on the task that he did not even note Legolas’s appearance. It was only when he’d emptied his quiver yet again and made to retrieve his arrows that he sensed the presence of another.

“Legolas!” he softly exclaimed.

A moment later, he was caught in the balming embrace of his friend. They remained thus for a while, the younger twin unable to express his deep-seated emotions, the Mirkwood prince eager to soothe him as much as he could. Finally, Elrohir sighed and drew away a little.

“‘Tis good of you to come,” he whispered, grey eyes suspiciously bright.

“As you once succored me in my grief, so am I here for you,” Legolas softly said. He gestured to a bench by the yard. “From the looks of it, you have been at this far longer than is wise, _gwador._ Come, take some rest.”

Elrohir acceded to the suggestion and allowed the prince to lead him to the bench. He sank down carelessly, none of his usual grace apparent. Legolas eyed him with concern. The younger twin was spent beyond reason. 

“How often do you wear yourself out like this?” he asked anxiously.

Elrohir dully replied, “As often as she dreams.”

“What do you mean?”

Listless pewter pools met his gaze. “She screams in her sleep. She can find no respite even in slumber, day or night. Father has had to resort to his most potent draughts that she may rest.” A spark of feeling lit in the Elf-knight’s eyes. “You can feel her pain and terror when she screams. I – I cannot bear to hear her thus and not go out and slaughter as many Goblins as I can find. And so I do whatever I can to still my rage.”

Legolas blew his breath out, shocked at his friend’s state of being. He pulled the Elf-knight into the curve of a bracing arm, letting him rest his weary head against his shoulder, stroking the damp tresses comfortingly.

“Ah, what wrong has your mother ever done that this should happen to her?” he murmured.

“Evil knows no reason or pity,” Elrohir softly answered. “It only seeks to hurt or corrupt or destroy.” To this Legolas could provide no reply. He fell silent and let his stroking hand convey his sympathy and support.

After a few minutes, Elrohir asked, “How long will you stay?” 

“Father must return within a fortnight,” Legolas said. “He cannot entrust Mirkwood to Melthoron just yet. Not in these days. My brother is still too intemperate to rule with wisdom.” He glanced at Elrohir. The warrior nodded in acknowledgement but his tightened lips betrayed his disappointment. Legolas slipped his fingers beneath the twin’s chin and compelled him to look at him. “ _Adar_ must leave but I will stay through the winter if I must. I will stay for as long as you need me.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on the Elf-knight’s lips. His eyes gleamed gratefully. Legolas pulled him back into his consoling embrace. 

**********************************  
Glossary:  
lairë - Quenya for summer  
Hithaeglir – the Misty Mountains  
Nana – Mama  
meldiren – my friend  
gwador – sworn brother

_To be continued…_


	2. Plight

Legolas soon discovered for himself what Elrohir meant regarding his mother’s frightful dreams. In the days that followed, the peace of Elrond’s house was shattered now and again by the harrowing outbursts of his wife. It did not matter if the horrors came to her in her sleep or waking dreams, her screams were the same. Agonized, terrified and almost beyond bearing. 

‘Tis no wonder that Elrohir cannot endure it, Legolas thought the third night of his visit as he lay abed, listening to the shrieks that resounded down the corridor and the hurried tread of feet as the twins and Arwen hastened to help their father. 

After the disturbing sounds faded and quiet returned, he reckoned that the brethren might want some company. Throwing on a bed-robe, he slipped out of his room and made his way to Elrond’s bedchamber. As he neared it, he saw Elrohir come out and race down the stairs as if demons snipped at his heels. Legolas hurried after him, following him out into the still night as the younger twin headed for the Bruinen. 

To his shock, the Elf-knight dove fully clothed into the chill waters of the river and began to swim hardily against the current towards the cascades. Legolas realized that the twin needed to spend his pent-up rage. To head him off, the archer ran along the banks, keeping a weather eye on the sleek form of his friend as it cut rapidly through the coursing waters. 

He reached the falls just scant seconds before Elrohir. 

The Elf-warrior leadenly clambered up the steep banks, his sopping wet clothes clinging to his body. He was startled when Legolas grabbed him by the arm and helped him the rest of the way up. Wordlessly, the prince stripped the twin of his sodden shirt and wrapped his robe around him. Though Elrohir seemed unaffected by the cold water or brisk night breeze, Legolas was not taking any chances. The steady drain on his friend’s spirit could very well render him vulnerable to the elements and make him susceptible to the ailments that plagued the mortal races. The blood of Men flowed through Elrohir’s veins. If his mother, a pureblooded _Edhel_ , had been so weakened that she became prone to infection, what more her Half-elven son?

“Here, rest and compose yourself before we return,” he murmured, urging the warrior to sit down upon the springy grass.

Elrohir mutely complied and Legolas sank down beside him. The Elf-knight folded his arms upon his pulled up knees and buried his face in them. The Mirkwood prince could only stroke his back soothingly. At length, Elrohir raised his head and looked at him.

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

Legolas shook his head, feeling quite useless. “If only I could do more...”

The twin laid a clammy hand on his arm. “‘Tis enough that you followed me here,” he said. “You did not have to.”

The archer covered the chilled hand with his own warm palm. “I could not let you face this alone.” He reached up and brushed strands of raven hair from Elrohir’s face. “Let us go back. You should get into dry clothes.”

The warrior nodded and they rose to their feet. Legolas accompanied him all the way to the door of his room.

oOoOoOo

Thranduil and Brethildor departed after a fortnight, shaken by what they had witnessed and determined that no such fate would befall any of their own people. But as he had promised Elrohir, Legolas stayed on. Keeping company with the twins, he sought to return the care and compassion they’d shown him when he’d faced the loss of his own mother more than a thousand years earlier. He was particularly attentive to Elrohir for he worried about the younger twin’s dark moods and sudden bouts of fury. It recalled to him his own erratic behavior when his mother passed away. And so he kept an eye on his friend, cajoled him out of his worrisome silences, did his best to keep him from over expending himself in physical activities and generally just stayed close by to lend a sympathetic ear should Elrohir need it.

In this fashion did summer pass into autumn. Slowly, Celebrían’s fearsome dreams declined until several days would pass in between attacks. After a few quiet weeks, her family dared to hope that they had weathered the worst and could look forward at last to her healing.

But barely a week after the twins’ begetting day, on a markedly crisp afternoon, Celebrían lost the battle anew and nearly her own life as well. Only Arwen’s vigilance prevented a second tragedy from happening. 

Always anxious about her mother’s state of mind, she went to her parents’ room to look in on her. She came upon an empty chamber with its door not only ajar but also askew as if it had been slammed violently against the wall. On the floor were a shattered vase, torn pillows and the remnants of the silk sheet that had covered Celebrían. All the signs pointed to a panicked exit by Rivendell’s lady. Fearing the worst, the Elf-maid sounded the alarm and soon the entire household was out looking for her. 

Lindir discovered her teetering perilously on the highest roof of the Last Homely House. Caught in a waking nightmare, Elrond’s wife had believed herself in the clutches of the orcs once more. Unable to extricate herself from the hellish dreamscape into which she had inadvertently ventured, she had raced down the corridor from her bedchamber and scurried out one of the high windows onto the rooftop outside. She’d then struggled up the steep gabled slope in an apparent attempt to elude her phantom pursuers. 

A concerted and dangerous effort ensued amongst the housemaster, Elrond, his sons, Legolas and Glorfindel as they attempted to fetch her from her precarious perch. They slowly converged on her position from different directions to cut off any escape on her part but approached her as carefully as possible to avoid alarming her unduly. For though she was trapped in a waking dream she seemed aware of movement around her and flinched like a frightened doe at every imagined assault. Much like Legolas when he attacked me after his mother’s death, Elrohir grimly recalled. 

Closest in distance to her, he cautiously reached out to grasp her arm as she swayed dazedly on the edge of the roof. But just then, Celebrían turned her head and saw him. Thinking him one of her tormentors, she screamed and frantically tried to evade his reaching hand. The motion cost the lady her footing and she stumbled, toppling over the elaborately carved eaves.

While the Elves far below cried out in horror, Elrohir frantically launched himself at her, grabbing her flailing arm with one hand and just barely managing to catch at the edge of the roof with the other. 

“Elrohir!” Legolas desperately scrambled to get to his friend. 

The younger twin winced as the ornate carvings bit into his palm; blood oozed out of the deep cut and down his wrist. But gritting his teeth, he doggedly hung on. He felt hands grab at him and he looked up into Legolas’ eyes. A moment later, Glorfindel joined the prince and together they relieved Elrohir of his excruciating grip on the roof edge. However, they found it next to impossible to pull him up while Celebrían twisted and struggled violently in his grip; his hold on her wrist was already direly tenuous. 

Meanwhile, Elrond and Elladan had swung down to a ledge below the dangling pair. 

“ _Gwanneth!_ Let her go!” Elrond shouted to his younger son.

A glance down assured the Elf-knight that it was indeed safe to release his hold on his terrified mother and he let her drop into his father and brother’s waiting arms. Legolas and Glorfindel quickly hauled him to safety. 

From the ledge, Elrond gently passed his now awakened lady to Lindir who’d climbed onto the balcony directly beneath them. And then he and Elladan clambered down in her wake. 

Minutes later, a shaken group of Elves gathered in the upper-floor corridor where a white-faced Elrond cradled his weeping wife protectively, whispering soothing words in between gentle kisses to her silver crown. Finally, when she quieted a bit, he tenderly lifted her in his arms and bore her back to their bedchamber.

Legolas swiftly turned his attention to the twins and Arwen. The three siblings held to each other for mutual comfort. But there was a glimmer of something else in Elrohir’s countenance that even Elladan did not see, immersed as he was in his own shock and distress. At length, Elladan murmured something to Arwen and his sister nodded. After tearfully hugging Elrohir again, she allowed the older twin to bring her to her room. 

Legolas stepped to Elrohir’s side and placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. The Elf-knight glanced at him then shivered once. Legolas noticed the crimson stains on his right sleeve and recalled Elrohir’s wound. He reached for the bleeding fist.

“You are hurt,” he murmured. 

“‘Tis no more than a scratch,” Elrohir said dismissively. He swallowed convulsively. 

Legolas peered at him intently. “What is wrong?”

The twin’s mouth tightened. And then he looked at his friend, eyes glittering with daunting emotion. 

“I never thought I would say this but...” He heaved a shuddering breath. “Your mother was more fortunate than mine, Calenlass.”

“Elrohir!”

“She is at peace within the Halls of Awaiting, her spirit whole. But my _naneth_ —” He broke off, Legolas’s upset expression registering. “Forgive me, that was uncalled for. I—”

“Nay, I understand,” Legolas quietly said. “You are distraught after what has just happened. But take heart, _gwador_. Your mother is safe once more and in your father’s care.”

Elrohir shook his head. “I fear this is not the whole of it,” he said. “I sense worse to come. I know not if my forebodings are true but if they are...”

“What forebodings?” Legolas asked with a pang of apprehension.

“More evil. More sorrow. For all of us.” He suddenly pulled away and punched the wall with his wounded fist, leaving a scarlet smear on the pale panel. Legolas moved quickly to shield him from the others’ startled stares.

“I hate them,” Elrohir whispered harshly. “I hate them for what they did to her. And I hate them for what this has done to me.”

“What do you mean?” Legolas queried frowningly.

Elrohir cast him a haunted look. “I relished watching them roast alive,” he said in a hushed voice. “I felt such joy at hearing their screams and seeing their agony. I understand now why you behaved thusly against the men who slew your mother. ‘Tis all I want to do now. To kill more orcs and all the other abominations Sauron and his ilk have foisted on Arda.” He shuddered visibly. “It burns inside me, Calenlass, this need, this lust for their blood. I can no longer hold it in.”

“What do you plan to do?” Legolas asked worriedly.

For a moment there was only silence. And then the younger twin straightened up and turned to face his friend.

“I will hunt orc and all manner of evil creatures,” he grimly said. 

Legolas stared at him in alarm. “You cannot go alone, Elrohir!” he exclaimed. “‘Twould be madness!”

“I will not be alone. Elladan will go where I go. His rage may not be as apparent as mine but he, too, seeks to avenge _Naneth._ ”

“But to what end? ‘Tis a perilous quest you would undertake.”

“Aye, but if we could rid our lands of even a fraction of these creatures and spare others our mother’s torment, it will be well worth the danger. “

“When—?”

“Tomorrow, at first light.”

Legolas was aghast. “What? Surely you jest!”

The Elf-knight’s eyes gleamed with murderous intent. “I cannot wait,” he growled. “If I do not do this soonest I will explode.” 

Legolas regarded him anxiously. The twilight eyes did not lose any of their repressed fury or implacable determination. The prince knew there would be no changing the warrior’s mind. He swiftly came to a decision.

“Then I will go with you,” he said.

Elrohir, surprised, objected. “‘Tis not your fight.” 

“If it is your fight, then ‘tis mine as well,” the prince retorted. “I will join you.”

Elrohir stared at him for a spell, moved by his loyalty. And then he leaned into his friend’s arms, shaking visibly as his volatile feelings overcame him once more. Legolas held him tightly, allowing all his concern and affection wash over the younger twin that he may find some modicum of tranquility even for a while.

oOoOoOo

The three of them left at dawn, racing into the rosy light of the newly awakened day. Elrond and Arwen watched them depart with heavy hearts. Behind them stood the rest of the immediate household. Not an Elf present did not feel heartsick at their going. Who knew what would come of this quest for vengeance?

Glorfindel quietly said to Elrond: “I will go after them should they fail to return come winter.”

Elrond sighed disconsolately. “I do not fear so much for my sons’ safety as for their peace of mind,” he murmured. “This will not end here. Their thirst for vengeance will not abate so swiftly. Elrohir’s especially.”

“Elladan will restrain him, _Ada_ ,” Arwen said soothingly. “As will Legolas.”

Elrond nodded slightly. “I hope they do. Ah, our ever valiant Elf-knight. Would that he were as even-tempered as Elladan.” 

“But then he would not be our Elrohir,” Arwen softly said. 

Elrond smiled faintly. “Nay, he would not,” he agreed. 

************************************  
Glossary:  
gwanneth – younger twin  
gwador – sworn brother

_To be continued…_


	3. Retribution

Foothills of Hithaeglir, _Ringarë_ T.A. 2509  
It was too good to be true. The orcs smacked their twisted lips in anticipation as they watched the lithe figure pick its way amongst the craggy foothills of the Misty Mountains. A lone Elf was a rarity in these parts. And not just any Elf but one of the hated Peredhil. There was no doubt about the identity of this traveler. The raven hair, the steely grey eyes. And a countenance and form like no other. Fair and lean as the Firstborn yet possessed of a subdued earthiness and subtle brawn reminiscent of Men.

They did not know why he was alone in so perilous a place. But they were not about to complain. He would give them good sport, this son of the Lord of Rivendell. He would fight until the very end, of that they were certain; they would enjoy trying to break him if they could. 

They waited with bated breath as he neared their position. 

But just as they were poised to pounce, he stopped, looked pointedly their way, then turned and raced in the opposite direction. Howling in fury that their intended prey might yet escape them, the orcs erupted from their hiding places and pursued him. 

He was fleet-footed, this Peredhel. Fleeter than any Elf they had yet encountered. But there were many of them, about fifty in all. They began to spread out, meaning to surround their quarry before he should gain the concealing forests beyond. To their surprise, however, the Elf turned and headed back towards the foothills.

Further into the hillocks he fled until he was sprinting down a narrow cleft. The Goblins gnashed their teeth with glee. Foolish Elf! They had him now. There was no way out of this passageway.

As they expected, he came up against a wall of solid rock. He spun around and eyed his pursuers, the twilight pools glittering warningly. The orcs came to a halt several feet away from him. Something about this Elf unsettled them.

He showed no fear at all. Despite being trapped against an unyielding rock face, hemmed in by the cleft’s high ridges and faced with a band of orcs intent on his ruination, the Peredhel did not seem the least bit afraid. A number of the more quick-witted of the orcs wondered whether it was sheer courage or mere bravado that helped him maintain his eerie calm.

A few goblins in the front lost their patience and hurled themselves at their victim. Moments later, their heads rolled on the dusty ground. The Elf had drawn his sword and decapitated them with wicked speed and dexterity. And still the steely eyes regarded them with cool contempt.

For several heartbeats the orcs did not move, shocked by his audacity in the face of their superior numbers. Then they bunched together. This Elf was cunning and highly skilled. Best to rush him en masse and give him little room to wield his deadly sword. Moving as one, they surged forward.

High above the advancing goblins, something dark snapped out, billowed and dropped down upon them. Suddenly, the orcs found themselves hopelessly tangled in a net woven from _hithlain_ , the material of which the soft but surprisingly strong rope of the Golden Wood was made. Those that had managed to elude the net’s embrace were swiftly cut down by a volley of arrows from above. 

The hunters had become the prey.

Elrohir, his lips curled into a feral smile, advanced upon the snarling, heaving mass of orcs, sword in hand. An instant later, Elladan and Legolas dropped down from the ridges and joined him, their lethal blades unsheathed. The cleft echoed with screams of pain and fear as the Elves fell upon their trapped foes with savage precision. It was a slaughter, pure and simple.

oOoOoOo

Legolas leaned against the trunk of the great oak under which he reclined. Thank the Powers he’d been able to wash off all the gore and grime though it had taken an abominably long time to vanquish the stench of dead and dying orcs. He wondered how much longer they would continue thusly.

They had camped by a rushing stream within a day’s journey from the feet of Hithaeglir. First refreshing themselves in the stream, they’d then set about securing the site. While Elladan tended to their horses, Elrohir had built a goodly fire, which was more a deterrent against fell beasts than a means of warmth for the three Elves. After gathering enough wood for their needs, Legolas had settled himself beneath the oak and let his thoughts follow their appointed path. He considered their bleak surroundings, most trees stripped bare of their foliage, the grass withered by the cold.

The chill of winter was already in the air. Soon, frost would cloak the land with its icy mantle and even the orcs would retreat into their dank and dreary dens. He let out a weary breath.

Nearly three months had he journeyed with the twins, scouring the mountains and forests for goblins; luring, trapping and slaying all they could discover with frightening efficiency. He’d never realized how creative the brothers could be in the killing-arts. Or how brutal and pitiless. It was difficult to reconcile the ruthless hunters they had become with the compassionate friends he’d long known. 

As always, Elrohir was the more intense, the more coldly determined of the two. It was he who more oft than not served as bait for the snares they set, he who took the greatest risks in every encounter with orcs, trolls and even human outlaws. And when his fearsome rage was unleashed, it was he who showed the least mercy to their foes, taking no prisoners but sending them all to their untimely ends.

Legolas turned his regard to the brethren. Elladan was busy currying his steed. Elrohir, on the other hand, sat by the fire, staring intently into the flames. The fiery glow cast a golden sheen upon his countenance, making him look much younger and more innocent than he was. Legolas felt a twinge of regret. 

Fate had dealt his friends a cruel hand. Elrohir had been right. Legolas’ mother was the more fortunate; she was at peace as Celebrían was not. And as for himself... True, he had suffered through the death of Ithilwen and all the guilt and anger that had followed. But the twins had to endure a greater torment. There was no hope of closure for them while their mother continued to relive the torment of her captivity. Nor was there a means of purging the emotions that haunted them; not when they could see and hear and sense Celebrían’s incessant pain and terror. Once I mourned my mother’s passing, I was able to move on, the prince mused. But they...

It occurred to him then that many years would pass before Elrond’s sons would be able to relinquish their anger and desire for retribution. If they ever managed to do so at all. A shiver coursed through his limbs. He did not want that to happen. He did not wish for bitterness and hatred to have sway over them to the exclusion of all other feelings. 

Not Elladan though, he thought. The older twin would weather this eventually and come out relatively unscathed. Always the less passionate of the brethren, he would not let this consume him. 

Elrohir was a different matter. The Elf-knight was deeply passionate about the people and things he cared for. Once committed to a person or a cause, he rarely if ever swerved from the course he’d chosen. It was both a virtue and a bane. But for those he loved and who in turn loved him, it was a much treasured blessing. 

Nevertheless, it was this trait that might yet lead his friend to ruin and this Legolas refused to allow to happen. Come what may, he had to help Elrohir find the delicate balance that would keep him from blindly pursuing this perilous quest. Starting now. 

He rose and joined the younger twin by the fire. Elrohir glanced at him and smiled wanly. Legolas placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Winter is upon us,” he said. “‘Tis time we returned to Imladris and time you rejoined your family.” When Elrohir made no reply, he pointed out: “Even the orcs will return to their holes to wait out the cold. Would you take so great a chance as to follow them into their dens just to destroy them? ‘Twould be folly, _gwador_.”

“Legolas is right,” Elladan said as he came to them and sat to face his brother. “We cannot do more in this season. And besides, Father expected us to return ere winter set in. Would you have Glorfindel come searching for us?”

Elrohir shook his head. “Nay, I would not trouble him and with Erestor still on the mend.” He looked from Elladan to Legolas. “We will return. There is nothing more to do here for now.”

Legolas narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “For now? Elrohir, surely you do not mean to do this again. Promise me you will not.”

“I cannot, Calenlass,” Elrohir regretfully said. “If _Nana_ does not improve...” He turned unseeing eyes into the gathering darkness beyond their camp. “I know not what I will do. Not yet.”

Elladan reached out and clasped his hand. “I am of the same mind, brother,” he stated. “If she fails to recover, we will do what we must. Together.”

Legolas sighed in frustration. “And will you forget all else in this quest?” he demanded. “What of your father and Arwen? Would you forsake them to fear and loneliness?”

Elrohir turned a sad countenance upon him. “Better to leave them than subject them to our black moods. ‘Tis not only you who cringes at my demeanor.”

Legolas flinched at the knowing words. He had tried to conceal his discomfort with the Elf-knight’s behavior. He’d thought he had managed it. But now it was apparent he had not.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to—”

“ _Avo_ ”—Don’t—Elrohir cut him off. “‘Tis natural for you to be discomposed by how I have acted and what I have done.”

“By what we have both done,” Elladan corrected. “We have long seen your unease, Legolas. And we understand and accept. Yet you have stayed by us despite everything. For that you have our most profound gratitude.”

Legolas could not help blushing at the older twin’s heartfelt pronouncement. Elladan did not speak thusly to him as often as Elrohir. That he now did so indicated his deep appreciation of Legolas’ deeds. 

“What think you of our course now?” Elrohir softly asked. “Will this be the last we shall see of you for a while?”

Legolas stared at him, disconcerted by the question. They knew he disapproved of their decision and were expecting him to withdraw from their company for a spell. He pondered the situation for several minutes. Neither brother attempted to press him for an answer.

“I do not wholly agree with you,” he finally said. “But I will join you whenever I can. Come what may, you are still my friends and I do not care to forego your company, so precious is it to me.” At their relieved smiles, he added: “I only implore you not to let your anger rule you. While your mother’s suffering is great and demands vengeance, I beg of you, do not let it taint your lives. She would not desire that.” He glanced at Elladan then gazed at Elrohir, letting his concern shine clearly in his eyes. “I do not desire that.”

The Elf-knight regarded him affectionately before replying. “You are surely the Powers’ gift to us that you should counsel us now with such tender wisdom,” he said, causing the prince’s cheeks to color anew. “Rest assured, we will heed your words, Calenlass.”

Legolas felt some relief at the younger twin’s reply. It did not allay all his fears but, for the present, it was enough.

*************************************  
Glossary:  
Ringarë – Quenya for December  
Hithaeglir – the Misty Mountains  
Nana - Mama

_To be continued…_


	4. Broken

Imladris, _hrivë_  
Their return was marked by great joy and vast relief. It seemed every member of the household and most of the valley’s warriors had turned out to greet them. Most wondrous of all, Celebrían joined her husband and daughter in welcoming them home. The three stared at her in visceral appreciation. 

Her hair had grown back and regained some of its former luster. And the scars that had despoiled her face were no more, her shimmering beauty readily apparent once again. She bestowed a tender smile on the twins and their Mirkwood friend, enfolded each son in a loving embrace, placed a warm hand upon Legolas’ cheek and even went so far as to gently chide them for departing so precipitously with nary a word of farewell to her. It heartened her sons to see her so seemingly recovered. Mayhap their mother would finally be whole once more.

But on second glance, she seemed as brittle as sugar pane. Her coloring had always made her seem ethereal but now she seemed little more than a will-o'-the-wisp. And behind her sparkling eyes and beaming lips lurked traces of her erstwhile distress. It roused the twins’ forebodings anew.

However, as the days went by, they strove to bring her naught but happiness and contentment while in their presence. They sought to please her in all things even if it meant joining her in the most unlikely of activities. Thus, the inhabitants of the Last Homely House were treated to the astonishing sight of Elrond’s virile sons industriously baking nut breads and sweet cakes alongside their mother and sister or patiently learning the finer points of embroidery under Celebrían’s critical eye. Not even the prospect of helping her care for her prize roses by winter’s end fazed them if by doing as she bid they could elicit her stunning smile. Naturally, they did not allow Legolas to escape taking part in their toils and the Mirkwood prince quickly found himself sunk in placid domesticity, will he, nill he. 

On occasion she would demand that all three regale her with tales of their adventures. They readily humored her but took care to leave out anything that might recall to her the dark days of her hideous captivity. And always the brethren kept a close watch on her, praying fervently that their fears be proved unfounded. 

Their prayers seemed answered as December came to an end and nothing untoward occurred. The days passed without incident, the nights in peaceful silence. She was even merry enough to join them in their whimsical winter games, hurling icy missiles at a spuriously indignant Elrond and rolling in the snow with her delighted children. It seemed all so normal that they all to an Elf came to believe that she had found the wherewithal to start healing.

But as December flowed into January, her spirits began to droop. She became withdrawn once more and would start or flinch at any sudden movement no matter how slight. Her fear of the dark returned in full, as did her nightmares and her screams. Worst of all, she soon turned violent, oft striking back at Elrond or the twins when they attempted to aid her. Arwen was all but forbidden to approach her alone.

They realized then how thoroughly she had fooled them all, even her husband who knew her so well. Out of love for them, in her reluctance to continue burdening them with her troubles, she had put on the act of her life. But the strain of keeping up such a masterful charade had proved too great a drain on her already frail spirit. Now she was paying the price in full.

A shroud of apprehension settled once more upon the family. It was becoming patently clear. There would be no miracle for her or them.

The end came with resounding anguish.

oOoOoOo

Elrond smiled indulgently as he observed Glorfindel and Erestor from his bedroom window one lazy afternoon near the end of January. The two had gone for a stroll in the snow-covered gardens, the captain solicitously helping the steward negotiate the downward slope that led to the orchards beyond.

Erestor no longer limped but his game leg was still prone to sudden fits of weakness and would buckle without warning especially when he traversed uneven surfaces. That wasn’t surprising considering his leg had been broken in two places and his kneecap near shattered. It had taken all of Elrond’s skill and then some to restore the injured limb and ensure it would mend properly.

The long recovery period had been the hardest for Erestor. For an Elf who always kept busy at one task or another, the enforced inactivity proved agonizing at worst and tedious at best. Only Glorfindel’s love and attention kept him reasonably sane throughout the dull days of his confinement 

Now that he could move about again, he took every opportunity to walk around, so happy was he to be freed of his necessary captivity. Glorfindel seldom strayed from his side during these periods and they were oft seen wandering about Rivendell, arm in arm, Erestor’s brush with tragedy drawing them even closer to each other.

As Elrond continued to watch them, Erestor’s leg chose that moment to fail him and he lurched forward awkwardly. He would have fallen but for Glorfindel’s quick reflexes. The captain swiftly caught him and helped him regain his balance. Then, when Erestor leaned momentarily against him, Glorfindel snaked his hand around his mate’s waist and pulled him close for a kiss so heated Elrond feared it would turn all the snow to mush.

Releasing the flustered advisor, the golden Noldo suddenly scooped him up in his arms as he would a mere Elfling and bore him back to the house. Elrond laughed softly as Erestor’s vociferous protests resounded through the quiet gardens. Glorfindel paid him no mind. The captain’s wicked smirk made his intentions quite clear as he carried his now red-faced spouse to their conjugal quarters. 

Elrond continued to chuckle, amused by his friend’s actions. It seemed that as time went by, Glorfindel’s appetite for Erestor only increased. Seldom a day went by that the steward did not go about in high-collared garments to hide the flagrant marks of passion the fair captain enjoyed inflicting on him. Not that Erestor objected to such usage; he was as enthusiastic a bed-partner as Glorfindel. But he was reserved by nature and shied at the prospect of flaunting such obvious signs of his mate’s considerable ardor.

“They are so happy.”

Elrond turned around to stare at his wife in surprise. She was standing at his shoulder, her eyes riveted on the pair below until they disappeared from sight. Shrouded in a thick white wrap, which concealed her much too slender form, she looked almost otherworldly.

“I thought you were asleep,” Elrond said, curling a welcoming arm around her.

She shook her head. “I tried to.” After a moment’s hesitation, she admitted, “It hurts... there.”

Elrond sighed. “Lie down, _meleth_ , and let me attend to you.”

Biting her lip, Celebrían complied. A sad expression crossed her husband’s countenance as he reached into the drawer of the bedside table for a small jar of medicinal salve. 

Though Celebrían’s wounds had healed and the sutures were long removed, she still felt pain every once in a while either in her shoulder where the orkish poison had severely damaged the muscles around it or in her nether regions. The salve had a numbing effect and gave her respite from the lingering discomfort of her injuries. 

'I have healed so many yet I cannot give complete ease to my own wife,' Elrond thought somewhat bitterly. He climbed onto the bed and signed to his recumbent lady to part her legs. Celebrían obeyed then closed her eyes as she always did when her husband tended to her. Gently, Elrond applied the salve to her tender flesh. 

It was a service he had performed for her for two months now. Therefore, he did not in the least expect what followed.

He had just gingerly pressed a salve-anointed finger into her when she suddenly shrieked and jerked away from him. He stared at her in alarm, noting her terrified, wide-eyed countenance.

“ _Melethril_ , what is wrong?!” he queried anxiously, reaching for her. “Did I hurt you?”

He gasped in shock when her hand lashed out and her fingernails raked his cheek, leaving scarlet streaks in their wake. He evaded her second attack, then caught her wrists as she lunged at him, hands ready to claw and gouge him. He bore her down beneath him, using his body to pin her down.

“Let go of me!” she screamed, her voice strident with fear and loathing.

“Celebrían, ‘tis I!” he shouted desperately.

When she became even more agitated, twisting, kicking and rearing in his grasp, he was compelled to resort to force. Tears stung his eyes as he did what he had never done in all the time they had known each other. He struck her hard, the sound of his palm against her cheek reverberating with harsh clarity in his ears.

She fell back limply. Almost sobbing, he cradled her in his arms, pressing his lips to her temple, brushing shaking fingers against the crimson splotch on her pale cheek. It was several minutes before she recovered her wits. She opened her eyes and stared at him dazedly, her hand reaching up to touch the unaccountable sting on the side of her face.

“What—?” She noticed the weals that marred the elegant curve of his cheek and frowned in confusion, her own pain forgotten. “Your face... How did you get hurt, _hervenn_?”—husband—she asked, struggling to sit up.

“‘Twas an accident,” he lied. “Think no more about it.” 

She regarded him curiously and raised her hand to tenderly touch the welts. It was then that she saw his lashes. His tear-damp lashes. Her husband seldom shed tears. She could scarcely recall when she had last seen him cry. Her eyes widened as horrid recollection came back in an instant.

“I hurt you!” she cried out. “Ai, Elrond, forgive me!” 

“You were not yourself,” he protested.

She shuddered then slumped exhaustedly into his arms. She laid her argent head upon his shoulder.

“I was not,” she wearily agreed. “I have not been myself since...” She suddenly sobbed. “I fear I will never be myself again.”

“Hush, do not say that,” he objected.

“But it is the truth,” she said. She lifted her head and raised her hands to cup his handsome face. “Look at me, _seron vell_ ”—beloved— she whispered. “I am no longer the _elleth_ you married.”

“You will always be my love,” he said fiercely.

“As you will be mine,” she said sadly. “Wherever I go, you will always own my heart, Elrond.”

“What are you saying?” he exclaimed, fear limning his words.

She laid her head once more on his shoulder. “I am so tired, _meleth_ ”—love—she murmured. “And I am little more than a burden to you and our children.”

“You are no burden,” he heatedly insisted. “We would gladly take care of you for eternity if need be.”

“And I would repay you with pain as I did just now.”

“‘Twas not your intention.”

“But it was my doing.”

“Celebrían —”

“What will it take for you to accept the truth?” she softly asked. “For too long have we denied it. Must I turn on Arwen to prove my eroding sanity? Would you have our sons recklessly court their deaths on my account before you admit that this cannot continue?” She turned her face into his neck, seeking his strength in this dark hour and sighed as he held her snugly. She drew a shuddery breath. “My body is whole but my spirit wanes even as we speak.” 

Elrond closed his eyes. Defeat weighed heavily on him. The tears he had held back earlier now trickled down, their salt causing the weals on his cheek to sting. Celebrían burrowed deeper into his embrace and wept against his chest. They held tight to each other for the longest time, dreading the parting that they now knew would follow.

*********************************  
Glossary:  
hrivë - Quenya for winter  
melethril – female lover  
elleth – Elf-maid

_To be continued…_


	5. Unbidden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am well aware that 'fading' as Tolkien intended the term has nothing to do with dying from grief or some terrible ordeal, but is simply a way of describing the slow change that will eventually render an Elf invisible and intangible to the world at large. My use of the word as well as others of similar meaning – waning, failing, languishing – has more to do with the deleterious effects of pining away for a lost or unrequited love or being overwhelmed by extreme sorrow or torment. For the purposes of this series – call it creative license, AU, whatever – my version of the Elves can and do experience such a debilitating condition. Surely even as near perfect a race as the Firstborn must have chinks in their figurative armor and the ability of a passionate _and_ immortal being to feel deeply and suffer excessively for it does not seem all that far-fetched in my humble opinion.

The twins, Arwen and Legolas gathered in Elrond’s study, wondering why he had summoned them so suddenly that evening. They became even more curious when Glorfindel and Erestor joined them, their fair faces bleak; it was apparent that they knew what this was all about. But before they could question either counsellor, Elrond walked in.

Arwen could not help a soft exclamation of alarm at first sight of her father. Elrond looked spent and drawn, his eyes red-rimmed. And he had not bothered to don his customary robes of office. Clad in a simple tunic and breeches, he appeared more the warrior Elf of yore rather than the august Lord of Imladris.

“ _Ada_ , what is it?” she asked worriedly. “You look exhausted.”

“Are those welts on your face?” Elladan suddenly interrupted.

Elrond sighed and raised his hand to absently touch the crimson marks on his cheek. He said: “Your mother assaulted me unwittingly.”

The younger Elves gasped in shock. “ _Nana_ did that to you?” Arwen said disbelievingly.

“She did not know what she was doing,” Elrond explained. “She is finding it more and more difficult to cope with her fears.” His gaze swept over his daughter and the twins. A spare glance at Legolas prompted the Mirkwood prince to move closer to Elrohir. “She is weary beyond bearing,” he said. “There is nothing more I can do for her. She is… fading. ”

His utterance cast a pall over his children. Though they had long suspected that this might come to pass, it was still difficult to actually hear the words confirming it. But they were not surprised. They had seen the signs. 

She’d fought valiantly to regain her old vivaciousness. Her struggle had been painfully apparent to all. No one could doubt the courage and determination of the Lady of Imladris. But in the end, it was to no avail.

The days of torture had altered something in her. Elrond’s children had seen the steady diminishment of the light in her eyes, comprehended as winter passed that things would never be the same again. That she would never be the same again. 

Their mother’s incandescence had dimmed, her innocence completely shattered. What was lost could not be restored. 

“You have healed so many others,” Arwen said imploringly. “Can you not help her?”

Elrond flinched inwardly at his daughter’s plea but he carefully concealed it. He could not break down before them now.

“There is no healing for her,” he quietly replied. He hesitated as he came to the meat of the matter. “At least, not here.”

Elrohir jerked his head up. “Then where, _Ada_?” he demanded.

Elrond gazed at his younger son. The Elf-knight’s eyes were positively ablaze with apprehension. He looked at the others, noted Arwen’s wide-eyed stare, Elladan’s paled features, Legolas’s wondering frown. At an encouraging nod from Erestor, he drew a deep breath and replied.

“In Valinor.” 

His children’s stunned expressions struck him like a physical blow. Glorfindel swiftly reached out a hand to steady him and he glanced at his friend gratefully.

“Nay,” Elrohir objected. “You cannot mean to do this!”

“I – we have no choice.”

“How could you have decided this without consulting us?”

“Elrohir—” Elladan cautioned.

“This will split our family asunder!”

“Do you think I have not considered that?” Elrond countered. At Elrohir’s almost furious glare, he raised a supplicating hand. “I am loath to take this path,” he said. “She and I have never been parted for longer than a few months since our binding beneath the eaves of Lórien. She is my light, _gwanneth_. My life’s meaning.” Elrond let out a sorrowful sigh. “But to save her I must let her go. ‘Tis the price I must pay if by it she may be made whole once more. ”

Elrohir bit his lip then bowed his head. “I am sorry, _Ada_ ,” he whispered contritely. Legolas clasped his shoulder in mute sympathy.

“As am I,” Elrond said. “I wish I could make this easier for all of you. If only—” He visibly trembled.

Elladan looked at him with pain-filled eyes. “When will she leave?” he asked, his voice fraught with sorrow.

“Come spring,” Elrond said. “‘Twould be best for her not to delay her departure.” He stopped, seeing their renewed shock. 

“So soon?” Arwen protested. “Can she not stay a while longer?”

Elrond shook his head. “She will not last if she remains much longer in these lands. Only in the Blessed Realm might she find peace and wholeness.”

“Might?” Elrohir asked sharply.

“There are no guarantees,” Elrond admitted. “But her chances of recovery will be far greater there than were she to linger here. To stay will only hasten her fading. I will not lose her to the Halls of Awaiting. Not while I still draw breath.” He spared them one last grieving gaze then said, “I must go back to her.”

He hurriedly left the room. For several minutes his children could only look at each other in speechless disbelief.

“I never imagined it would come to this,” Elladan softly said, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

On the verge of speaking, Arwen broke into sobs instead. She sank into Elladan’s arms, weeping heartbrokenly. The older twin held her tightly, channeling all his strength into comforting her despite the anguish in his own heart. But Elrohir did not go near them. Instead, he stood and walked to the wide window behind his father’s desk and stared out at the stark landscape. 

Legolas watched him worriedly. The younger twin’s eyes had been veiled but the prince had glimpsed something terrible in their depths, what, he did not know.

After a few minutes, Glorfindel rose to go to him but as soon as Elrohir became aware of his approach, he drew in a ragged breath, spun on his heel and fled the study. The others exchanged glances of consternation. Elladan would have followed but Legolas swiftly forestalled him.

“Arwen needs you now,” he said. “I will see to Elrohir.”

Elladan nodded and went back to his sister. Legolas, on the other hand, hastened after the other twin.

Questions placed to various servants and retainers yielded the information that Elrohir had gone to his bedchamber. Coming to the door of the twin’s room, Legolas knocked on it. When silence greeted him, he decided to enter with or without the warrior’s permission. He stepped in and halted on the threshold. 

The Elf-knight was seated on the low, wide divan below his window, leaning back against the glazed panes, half turned to stare into the twilight. He was hugging himself as if to still the trembling that wracked his body. Tears streamed down his pallid cheeks but no sound escaped his quivering lips.

Legolas shut the door behind him and swiftly went to his friend. Kneeling before him, he took the other’s hands in his, tugging at them until Elrohir turned to look at him. The argent eyes were brilliant with tears yet strangely dulled with sorrow. The sight nearly broke Legolas’s heart.

“We failed her,” the words spilled numbly from the twin’s lips. “We did not get to her in time.”

Legolas shook his head vehemently. “Nay, Elrohir, you did not fail her,” he firmly objected. “Do not blame yourself for this.” 

Elrohir stared at him blankly. And then the blankness was replaced by sheer anguish. “Elladan and I were supposed to accompany her to Lórien,” he bitterly said. “But then you sent word that you might visit and I begged off.” 

Legolas caught his breath. Suddenly, Elrohir’s behavior made so much sense. 

The Elf-knight continued, his voice harsh with self-recrimination. “Elladan said ‘twas wrong to change our plans when there was no surety of your coming but I refused to hearken to him. Then Mother bade him stay because she knew we did not like being apart overlong.” His eyes glistened with remorseful tears. “Elladan was right. I should have done my duty. Had we been with her, we might have prevented this from happening.”

“More likely you would have been killed or grievously injured as Erestor was,” Legolas countered gently. "'Twas not your fault, _gwador_. You could not have saved her anymore than I could have saved my own _naneth_.” 

He looked down at the hands in his. Powerful, supple warrior’s hands. Yet they now shook helplessly as Elrohir struggled with his desolation. Legolas felt the cold that clutched at his friend’s heart, knew it for the chill of grief and guilt and despair. Letting go, he threw his arms around the twin instead, holding him close, urging him to lean his head upon his shoulder. He felt Elrohir wrap his arms around him in return, clasping him tightly as if he feared to lose him.

The Elf-knight’s next words proved his suspicion true. “Do not leave me, Calenlass,” Elrohir said brokenly. “I could not bear to lose you, too.”

“I would never leave you!” Legolas exclaimed softly. “You are my heart’s brother. I cannot conceive of life without you at my side.”

The twin shuddered in his arms. Drawing back slightly, he peered into the silvery pools anxiously. Elrohir gazed back at him, his eyes blurred with grief. And then, unexpectedly, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against Legolas’s mouth. It was a soft, brief kiss, almost a chaste one, yet it caused the archer’s heart to skip a beat. He stared at Elrohir in surprise. The darkling Elf flushed and looked away,

“I am sorry,” he whispered. 

Legolas hesitated then raised his hands to cup Elrohir’s face, compelling him to look at him. Gazing into the depths of the twilight eyes, he comprehended his friend’s need. Mere lust alone had not impelled the kiss. There was also a hunger for warmth, comfort and affection to dispel the cold that had taken hold of his spirit. 

The memory of that passionate Mirkwood week recalled itself to the prince’s mind. He shivered, remembering in graphic detail what had passed between him and his friend. Unbidden, he felt his body react to the memories and he swallowed with some difficulty. He had never really come to terms with his improbable response to Elrohir’s pleasuring. Just the thought of lying with the Elf-knight once more was enough to set off a volatile mix of emotions he had yet to truly understand. 

But the need in his friend’s eyes was all too compelling. He could not deny the other the solace he so desperately craved in this dark time. Resolved, Legolas cast aside his doubts and reservations once more for the sake of a friendship he treasured above everything else. He lowered his hands and began to undo the ties on the twin’s shirt. 

“Let me warm you,” he murmured.

For a moment, Elrohir stared at him incredulously, but at his shy, acquiescing smile, the warrior drew in a steadying breath and likewise reached to disrobe him.

When they were both unclothed, Elrohir pulled Legolas onto the divan to lie beside him. For a long while, they remained thus, the twin bestowing tender kisses upon the archer’s lips, cheeks and throat. Content to simply hold his friend close, he let his hands remain still upon Legolas’s flank and back. 

The prince quickly discovered that the potency of Elrohir’s kisses had not diminished in all these centuries. They were still as seductive and sweet and irresistible as he remembered. Lulled by the slow, sensuous exploration, he opened up to the Elf-warrior; parted his lips and allowed the reaches of his mouth to be tenderly pillaged; lifted his chin to ease the passage of gently suckling lips as they followed the pale curve of his throat. 

Slowly, Legolas’s warmth penetrated the chill in Elrohir’s spirit until he no longer trembled from it. The awful grief began to subside to be replaced by a kinder sorrow. He still felt the sadness of his family’s imminent sundering but it no longer filled him with dread and despair. Before very long, the cold all but dissipated. But with its abatement came the gradual, inevitable rise in passion.

Warmth turned into heat, the gentle kisses gave way to deep, breath-stealing caresses, the motionless hands began to roam and touch and feel. Legolas gasped as Elrohir reached down between them to gently cup and caress him, groaned as agile fingers stroked his shaft to throbbing hardness, grasped convulsively at the warrior’s powerful arms when he pressed their groins together, bringing their hot, swollen members into sensuous, rapturous contact.

Before he could form another thought, he found himself lying beneath Elrohir, quivering under the twin’s knowing hands and lips. As before, he could not help the instinctive responses the warrior evoked in him. His throaty moans evinced the inexorable arousal of his body even as his mind steadily lost all grasp of lucidity. 

Close to a millennium had passed since they’d last lain together yet he felt the same wild thrill pass through his being at every evocative kiss and touch and whispered word. His breath continued to quicken as Elrohir slowly but ardently reclaimed him, proving all too plainly how well he knew Legolas’s body and its needs. 

As Legolas’s slender frame trembled beneath him, Elrohir could only wonder at the blessing the Valar had bestowed upon him a second time. He’d never thought to touch or taste, let alone take his Greenleaf once more. Despite Legolas’s assurance that he would always be there for him, Elrohir had not approached him again for intimacy in the close to nine hundred years that had followed that first time. Much as he’d secretly desired to do so, he’d simply felt it unacceptable to impose upon his dearest friend once again. Instead, he’d resolutely held on to the memories of that enchanted week in Mirkwood and resolved to content himself with them.

Now, more than mere remembrance was within his reach and coming so close on the heels of his sorrow, it was all the more poignant and precious to him. Once more, he committed to memory each and every moment of joy and rapture. He doubted he would be so blessed again and therefore added them to his precious store of treasured recollections. 

Legolas shuddered as Elrohir drew out each and every caress. Whether he was licking the pale column of his throat, sucking his now achingly hard nipples or enclosing the blatant evidence of his arousal in the moist heat of his mouth, there was a purposefulness to the twin’s every action that both mystified and enthralled him. Even the moment of his completion was closely attended to as the warrior deliberately milked him dry of his seed. 

Drained by such edacious suckling, Legolas only woozily registered the pillow that was gently slipped under his hips; barely noted that his legs had been spread wide open. Thus he was jolted when Elrohir pressed into him with his tongue, shocked that even that part of his body did not escape the Elf-knight’s attentions. Elrohir’s tongue dipped into him repeatedly, shallowly at first, then steadily intensifying until the twin was delving deeply into him, evoking delicious sensations with every plunge, causing Legolas’s breath to quicken unevenly. But the shock at being explored so intimately soon gave way to a fast burgeoning arousal and with it a desperate need to bring the delicious torment to its inevitable conclusion. 

By the time Elrohir slid into him, he was more than ready for it. His whole body cried out for it, begged for the relief only a joining with the younger twin could bring. In spite of his earlier release, he did not feel quite complete until he felt Elrohir sheathed deeply within him. It confounded him that he should feel this way but he soon ceased to think about it at all when Elrohir brought his body back to full arousal.

And then they were rocking together in a motion as ancient as love itself. Unsettled by his body’s eager capitulation to Elrohir’s allure and skill, Legolas reached out blindly with one hand and found it caught in Elrohir’s reassuring grip. A moment later, he felt the warrior’s other hand caressing his turgid shaft, gently and slowly at first, then increasing in intensity and speed until finally, finally, the archer sobbed out his surrender and shuddered his release between them. It was but scant seconds later that he felt the warm gush of Elrohir’s seed within him, the sensation heightened by his instinctive clenching of his muscles around the twin’s proud length. 

They collapsed together, Elrohir resting his dark head upon Legolas’s chest. For several minutes they lay quietly, waiting for their minds and bodies to calm down. It was then that Legolas heard the Elf-knight’s whispered, “Thank you.” A pause and then a hushed and hesitant confession followed. “I have missed this.”

Legolas swallowed hard. The admission was daunting to say the least, illustrating as it did all too clearly that Elrohir’s passion for him had not truly waned. But he was not certain what unnerved him more – his friend’s continued desire for him or his body’s readiness to accommodate that desire. 

Elrohir raised his head at his silence and espied his unease. He bit his lower lip regretfully. “I should not have let you do this,” he murmured.

Legolas moved swiftly to blunt the other’s remorse. “Nay, you needed me,” he said softly. “You needed this. I do not regret it and I would not have you do so either.” He gently pulled the Elf-knight back down and stroked the midnight silk of his hair. “I promised I would be there for you for as long as you need me. You know I never break my promises.”

He felt Elrohir shift his head to look up at him and he turned to meet the other’s gaze. The twilight eyes gleamed with gratitude and affection. “Then I am truly blessed,” the Elf-knight quietly said.

Legolas smiled and curled his other arm around his friend.

oOoOoOo

Elladan reached out, trying to sense his brother. Arwen was quieter now. Yet he did not dare leave her nor did he wish to. His sister felt so fragile in his arms; as if she would break if he were to release her. But he was also concerned for Elrohir.

Despite their twinship, it was no easy matter to connect with Elrohir at a distance. Especially if his brother was unaware of the effort to make the connection. Thus, it was not Elrohir’s conscious thoughts that Elladan gained but his overflowing emotions. 

The abundance and profundity of feeling that washed over the older twin nearly overwhelmed him. In that instant, he knew what had just occurred. He drew in a shaky breath. 

Arwen stirred in his arms and looked up, eyes now calm though still red and teary.

“I am all right now, _tôr iuar_ ”—older brother—she whispered. "Thank you. Mayhap you should go to Elrohir.”

Elladan shook his head. “Nay, there is no need. Legolas has more than adequately comforted him.”

Arwen gazed at him curiously, wondering at his odd use of the past tense. Not to mention the strange gleam in his stormy blue eyes. “How do you know—?”

He placed a finger against her lips and granted her a sage smile. “We are twins, remember?”

She looked at him skeptically, not quite convinced that was all there was to it. But Elladan hugged her close once more and she desisted from pressing for more. 

**************************************  
Glossary:  
Ada – Papa  
gwanneth – younger twin  
naneth – mother 

_To be continued…_


	6. Sundering

_Viressë_ T.A. 2510  
She left as soon as passage west was possible. So depleted was her blithe spirit that she did not even have the strength to await Celeborn and Galadriel’s reply to her husband’s missive regarding her waning. By the time her sorrowing parents got to read the letter, she was already on board the ship that bore her to the Undying Lands, away from all that she loved.

“Will you be comfortable in Finarfin’s halls?” Elrond asked her the eve of her departure. They were lying in the bed they had shared for nigh two and half millennia, Celebrían snuggled in the protective embrace of her husband. The bouquet of reawakening vegetation wafted through the windows, the clean smell of new greenery refreshing the denizens of Rivendell. 

“He is my mother’s sire. My grandsire,” she murmured, nuzzling her cheek against his throat, breathing in his scent, one she deemed more alluring than the most costly fragrances of Middle-earth. “I will be well cared for in his home.”

Elrond made no answer save to kiss the top of her silver crown. He hugged her thin form closer. The signs of fading were clearly apparent now. She was closer to gaunt than slender, the veins in her throat and hands standing out starkly against her too white skin. Her silver hair while thick and long had lost some of its wondrous luster and her lovely eyes were dulled by exhaustion and the constant onslaught of guilt.

The dreams had come back in full accompanied by ever escalating bouts of violence against those who tried to help her when she was in such straits. Her guilt over her actions however unintentional refused to abate. That it was her husband and sons who most bore the brunt of her furies only further exacerbated her self-castigation. Add to this the constant resurgence of pain from her wounds and it was a wonder that she had lasted this long. 

Elrond stroked his wife’s argent locks tenderly, pressing kisses now and then to her temple and cheeks. He did not see the lessened sheen of her hair, or the pallid tone of her skin or the increasingly obvious boniness of her form. In his eyes, she was still the fairest Elf in all Arda.

“Would that I could go with you,” he murmured.

“If only you could,” she softly agreed. “But you still have a part to play in the future of these lands.”

Elrond sighed. In that moment, the weight of his exalted heritage seemed almost unconscionably heavy.

“I pray that the years will pass swiftly that I may join you soonest,” he whispered.

Celebrían looked up at him, her eyes limpid with devotion. “‘Tis my prayer, too.” The blue pools then darkened with foreboding. “But do not hasten to my side if by doing so we should lose our children to your brother’s choice,” she added urgently. “Keep them to the path, _hervenn_ , I beg of you.”

Elrond hesitated then nodded. It was a never-ending source of apprehension for them. If he could, he would have urged his sons and daughter to go with their mother and not await the day of his own departure. But he knew they were not ready to forsake Middle-earth. His greatest fear was that they would never forsake Middle-earth at all. Nevertheless, he strove to assure his wife that he would do his best to hold them to his path. He would not burden her with yet another grief; she already bore more than she could bear.

He sighed once more as her lips turned into his neck. They had seldom coupled since her harrowing experience. She’d been in too much pain too often for such indulgences. But now...

“Love me,” she whispered against his skin, her warm breath raising prickles of desire along his flesh. “I would take the memory of this night with me unto the West.”

“As you wish, _seron vell_ ”—beloved—he murmured.

He granted her desire and more. They did not know when they would enjoy the bliss of each other’s loving once more. And so they coupled through the night, gently and slowly so as not to tire her past endurance, but thoroughly and ardently to create enough memories to carry them through Elbereth only knew how many lonely years.

oOoOoOo

Only her children, Legolas and the closest members of Elrond’s household gathered in the courtyard to see her off. Gildor Inglorion waited with his company of Elves by the arched gate leading out into the valley beyond. It had been her desire that her farewells to these dearest few should remain private. She spoke to each softly, tenderly. Almáriel and Iörwen wept while Lindir strove not to upset her by breaking down in her presence.

Erestor forgot all about restraint and dignity when she lovingly embraced him and he hugged her back fiercely, tears streaming down his cheeks. She had always been so kind to him, never treating him as anything less than a member of the family. She turned to Glorfindel, whispered a few words of gratitude and counsel to him. When she hugged him after, the Balrog slayer was seen to shudder with the effort not to weep.

Legolas swallowed hard when she came to him. As always, she regarded him with maternal affection. The prince near came to tears himself. Ever had she been like a second mother to him since the passing of Ithilwen. He pridefully held them back; bit his lower lip lest it quivered. He sighed sadly as she drew him into her warm arms, stroking his fair hair as she would one of her own children. She drew away and took his capable archer’s hands into hers. 

“Be strong for my children,” she softly implored. 

“I will, my lady,” he promised. Their regard drifted for a spell to the twins and Arwen who awaited their turn with their mother. Legolas’s eyes met Elrohir’s and the prince unexpectedly blushed. 

Celebrían noted the exchange. Her gaze lingered a moment on Elrohir, reading his demeanor with unerring comprehension. With this sudden insight into her younger son’s heart, she also beheld something of the future as the foresight of her line came upon her. She turned back to the archer, pinning him with a look that both heartened and warned. “What you share with Elrohir is beyond compare, Legolas,” she gently counselled. “Hearken to your heart if you would see it prosper.” At his startled stare, she added, “Your fate – and his – are one and the same.”

“What – what do you mean?” he asked in confusion.

“You will understand when the time comes,” she replied. She pressed a parting kiss to his cheek then walked to her family. Legolas could only stare at her, perplexed, a frown furrowing his brow.

She opened her arms to her children, embracing each in turn. Elladan openly wept, as did Arwen. Only Elrohir remained dry-eyed though his expression was no less sorrowful. Their mother spoke to each of them, gazing at their faces as if to memorize each and every line and curve of their features. 

“My ever dependable Elladan,” she said to her firstborn. “Do not burden yourself with duty to the exclusion of your desires, _gwaniuar_. I would see you happy with your heart’s choice.”

Elladan smiled faintly at her. “I will keep my eyes open, _Nana_ ”—Mama—he murmured. 

“Eyes and arms,” she teased gently and caressed his crimsoned cheek. “Whoever you may choose, he or she will be most welcome into our family. Always remember that, _iôn_.”—son.

“I will, _Nana_.”

She looked at Elrohir. Her eyes softened in understanding when he unthinkingly glanced in Legolas’s direction.

“And you, Elf-knight?” she crooned. “Have you found what you seek?”

Elrohir started then gazed at her in wonder. “Mayhap.” He looked at her a little anxiously and lowered his voice that only she might hear him. “I would that you did not mention this to _Ada_.”

“You would keep this from him?” He nodded somberly. “And Elladan? Does he know?”

“I think he suspects.”

“Why, _iôn nîn_? Why such reticence?”

Elrohir sighed. “Because I know not if it will ever come to fruition. I do not desire anyone’s pity, not even _Ada_ ’s or Elladan’s.” Again he beseeched her. “Please say nothing, _Nana_.” 

After a pause, she nodded and hugged him close. “Keep faith, _gwanneth_ ”—younger twin—she whispered into his ear. “Never lose hope that your desire will be granted.”

When at last she turned to her only daughter, her eyes suddenly widened and she grew even whiter than anyone thought possible.

“ _Nana!_ ” Arwen exclaimed, catching her in her arms. “Are you ill?” Elrond and the brethren came closer and flanked them.

Celebrían shook her head then looked up at the Elf-maid. To her family’s alarm, her eyes shone bright with frightened tears.

“‘Tis just that I – I had the strangest feeling that I would never see you again, _iell nîn_ ”—my daughter—she gasped.

Arwen stared at her. “That is absurd, Nana!” she insisted. “We will be together again.”

“I hope so,” Celebrían faintly said.

Elrond softly said: “We will always be together in our hearts, _meleth_. No matter where our paths lead us.”

His wife looked at him, her eyes swimming. And then she bit her lip and embraced Arwen. “Whatever happens, I want you to be happy, dearest,” she said. “Let nothing deter you, Arwen, not even us.” 

For once, Arwen could not find the words to say and in lieu of speech, she conveyed all her love and sorrow in their tight embrace. They parted most reluctantly, Celebrían letting her gaze linger on her daughter’s countenance for the longest time.

Gildor Inglorion now approached them.

“It is time,” he quietly said.

Elrond nodded and placed a hand on his wife’s arm. Celebrían looked at her children one last time then let her husband lift her onto their steed. Elrond mounted behind her and, with a grave nod to his sons, turned the horse towards the gate, his wife secure in the curve of his arm. 

She did not look back. She could not. It would have been too much to bear to look upon her grieving children as she departed from their home. And their lives.

************************************  
Glossary:   
Viressë - Quenya for April  
hervenn – husband  
gwaniuar – older twin  
iôn nîn – my son  
meleth - love

_To be continued…_


	7. Intentions

_Cermië_ T.A. 2510  
The gardens of Elrond’s house were bathed in golden light this fine afternoon in July. Out by the summerhouse, the Lord of Rivendell watched in amusement as his sons and their Mirkwood friend labored amongst the exquisite roses that had been Celebrían’s pride and joy. Overseeing their efforts was Arwen who at the moment displayed all the authority of her mother and none of her gentle persuasiveness.

“She is still a little raw around the edges.”

Elrond glanced with a chuckle at Glorfindel who sat by his side on the soft, velvety grass. He and Erestor had joined him for a short while. Erestor, his head cradled in the golden captain’s lap, dozed lightly.

“Aye, but she will learn quickly now that she has put her head to it,” Elrond said. “She will make a proper Lady of the Valley and do her mother proud.”

“If she can school her over-tart tongue first,” Erestor sleepily put in, roused by their chatter.

The other two Elves laughed softly. Elrond returned his regard to the trio of would-be gardeners and their graceful taskmistress. It was good that his children had taken it upon themselves to care for their mother’s roses. In preserving that which she had so enjoyed they were keeping her memory close to them. 

His eyes drifted to the summerhouse by the rose garden. It, too, evoked recollections of a time long past when the twins and Arwen had been but Elflings innocent of the world beyond and their family had been whole and happy. He wondered if his children would care to use it for their leisure. He knew he would not. It had been his gift to Celebrían after she’d given birth to the twins. He’d known she would delight in a place she could retire to in times of needed solitude or respite. As such, it would only remind him of their life together and that was much too painful to bear now that she was gone.

He put his pensive thoughts aside when the young quartet finally lay down their tools and came to join him. He grinned as Elladan scowlingly wiped a smidgen of earth from his cheek, which Elrohir so graciously pointed out to him.

“Will they do?” he inquired of his daughter.

“Well enough,” she smiled impishly.

“Well enough?” Elladan growled. “Is that all you have to say after making us toil so hardily?”

“Considering that _Nana_ ’s roses may well have expired from your questionable ministrations, I think my words high praise as it is,” she retorted.

Elladan cast her a look so black, it drew renewed laughter from their elders. 

“Peace, my children,” Elrond grinned. “I would have quiet and tranquility about me this lovely day.”

Elrohir glanced at him curiously. “Arwen says you are thinking of visiting Lórien this autumn,” he said. 

“I am considering it,” Elrond admitted. “Celeborn and Galadriel were grieved not to have been able to see your mother before she left. I would bring comfort to them if I can.” He nodded in Arwen’s direction and added: “Your sister wishes to come and I would counsel you to join us as well.”

“Why, _Ada_?” the Elf-knight asked.

“You and Elladan have expressed a desire to continue with your questing,” Elrond said gravely. “I will not stop you if ‘tis your wish. But I do think it prudent for you to think your reasons over before you go. Lórien will afford you the chance as Imladris and all its memories cannot.”

Elrohir exchanged a look with his brother. Consultation and agreement passed between them swiftly and silently. 

“Very well, _Ada_ , we will join you,” Elrohir said. He turned his eyes on Legolas. “Calenlass? You have oft said you would like to visit the Golden Wood. Mayhap you could come with us?”

Legolas sighed and shook his head. He looked toward the far end of the gardens where the Imladrin warriors, Daurin and Enedrion, conversed with several Mirkwood soldiers. The Wood-elves had arrived in the valley just two days past bearing Thranduil’s summons to his youngest son. For the Elvenking to send an escort to fetch him was a clear indication of his father’s desire for him to return home soonest.

“I dare not disobey my father,” he said. “He would not demand my presence were it not necessary. Troubles hound our borders without cease and my brothers are hard-pressed to hold the line. I am needed at home.”

Elrohir nodded and said no more on the matter. But the prince could not fail to espy the disappointment in his eyes.

“When shall we leave, _Ada_?” Arwen eagerly inquired.

“You are keen to go,” Elladan commented. 

“I miss our grandparents,” she said. “And I have a wager to settle from so many years ago. ‘Twould be an opportune time to do it.”

“What wager is this, _thel neth_?”—younger sister—Elrohir queried.

“One of grandfather’s border guards bet that I couldn’t shoot an arrow straight to save my life,” she huffed. “I intend to prove him wrong and have him on his knees before me begging forgiveness for demeaning my skills.”

“Poor fellow,” Elladan chuckled. “He will rue the day he offered so misguided an opinion.”

After a while, Glorfindel and Erestor rose and returned to the house. It had been a pleasant interlude but they had duties to attend to. Elrond soon followed with Elladan and Arwen. But Elrohir and Legolas remained behind. Though the younger twin had risen to his feet as well, he stood still for several minutes gazing impassively at the summerhouse and rose garden. He did not seem in the least troubled and in fact appeared remarkably composed. But Legolas suspected otherwise. 

He regarded his friend with ill-concealed anxiety. Elladan had claimed that Elrohir’s calm was deceptive and the prince was inclined to believe him. Beneath the surface of the Elf-knight’s quiet demeanor still lay hurt and anger and some of the coldness of spirit that had so overcome him the day they learned of Celebrían’s fate. But he was slowly burying his simmering emotions beneath layer upon layer of feigned serenity. Soon they would be so skillfully hidden that even his own twin would be hard-pressed to know truth from pretense. 

The prince wished he did not have to leave on the morrow. More than ever Elrohir needed his company. But he could not ignore his duties to the Woodland Realm. He’d already stayed away far longer than he’d asked leave for. Still, he longed to do something before he departed. Something that would help keep Elrohir anchored in hope and optimism and hold overbearing bitterness and despair at bay. Something that would be of deep-felt comfort even when he was no longer there in person to offer it.

_I have missed this._

Elrohir’s confession to him in the wake of their unexpected coupling suddenly came to mind. He shivered as the memory of bewitching kisses and beguiling caresses edged into his consciousness; warm color swiftly suffused his cheeks. He was surprised to have even thought of it, but now that the idea had presented itself, he found himself inclined toward it. He was not certain if it was a wise course to follow but the Elf-knight’s need for whatever consolation he could give outweighed everything else and he firmly put wisdom and all other considerations aside. If there was more to his decision than his concern and affection for a beloved friend, he chose not to examine it at present. Mayhap another time. 

Taking a deep breath, he took Elrohir’s hand and gently pulled him toward the house. The twin looked at him questioningly as they walked back.

Legolas simply said, “Let me warm you.”

Elrohir gazed at him in surprised wonderment. His twilight eyes glittered darkly. And then a faint, grateful smile curved his lips and he nodded.

Arm in arm, they entered the Last Homely House east of the sea. 

************************************  
Glossary:  
Cermië – Quenya for July  
Calenlass - Greenleaf (Elrohir’s pet name for Legolas)

_End of Part XII._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Part XIII: The Choices We Must Make - The twins seem destined to find their heart’s choices in Mirkwood, but the paths they take widely differ._


End file.
